A Marriage of Inconvenience
by Macabre Sinclair
Summary: An arranged marriage with a man who doesn’t want her; a firm friendship with his live-in-lover; a son who is growing up with remarkably few neuroses: such is the life of Isolde Malfoy. Slash, BlaiseDraco


**.           A Marriage of Inconvenience           .**

            "Isolde."

            Isolde Greengrass turned slowly to face her mother. It was only just past dawn, and she wasn't yet dressed – only covered in her blue silk morning-robe. Her eyes were still heavy from sleep and the faint red line of her pillow's press-mark zigzagged down the left side of her cheek. She had just barely poured fresh water into the washing basin.

            "Yes, mother?" she said, tracing the fine porcelain edge of the basin with one long finger.

            Her mother frowned politely. "Don't fidget, Isolde. It's not attractive." Isolde removed her hands from the bowl, and her mother rewarded her with an approving smile. "Thank you. I'm here to inform you that you will be lunching with Draco Malfoy at the Malfoy Manor this afternoon."

            Isolde was surprised and more than a little irritated, but the only indication of this was a barely perceptible widening of her eyes. "I see. I had not been aware of a prior engagement…?"

            "That is certainly an… apt choice of words," her mother remarked, amused, as if she knew something very important that Isolde did not.

            "And why do you say that?"

            "I'm surprised that you had forgotten, frankly," her mother said loftily. "I realize that you were quite young, but it was a rather momentous occasion." Isolde simply looked at her, waiting for her to finish. "When you were seven, your father and I signed a contract with Lucius – may his soul find peace – and Narcissa Malfoy. You are betrothed to Draco Malfoy, and the wedding is set for the first of the July following your twentieth birthday."

            Something shifted in Isolde's face. Although her countenance appeared as impassive as before, the eyes seemed to contain a certain wild rage, held at bay only by iron self-control.

            "No one has ever spoken of this to me before," she said, her voice soft and cool.

            "Well, the subject never surfaced," her mother said dismissively. "However, the matter lies not in whether you knew or did not know – nor whether you approve or disapprove. You are bound by a magical contract that cannot be broken without the express, written agreement of all the original participants and I doubt that Lucius – may his soul find peace – will soon be rising from his grave to sign a piece of parchment."

            "I realise this," Isolde said mildly, "but I must express my displeasure at the arrangement. I haven't even met the man." Her voice, so carefully controlled, shrilled upward at the end before she reined it in and took a slow, ragged breath.

            Her mother sniffed. "That's ridiculous, of course. You were there at the signing, when you were seven. That was just before the second war hit, if I remember correctly, and it seemed to be the perfect time for forming an alliance with the most powerful Dark family. Of course, the way things turned out I might have arranged a marriage with Harry Potter to better end, but the Malfoys managed to salvage nearly all of their wealth and a fair bit of their reputation through young Draco's foresight." It was a kind way to view the series of events resulting in the Malfoy family redemption. Many were of the opinion that Draco Malfoy had defected to Dumbledore's Army only out of cowardice and the knowledge that he would be sheltered until the war reached its end.

            "It is a very political match," Isolde acknowledged, in the manner that one would compliment a potentially dangerous acquaintance.

            "Yes," her mother agreed, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "It is. Narcissa and I have been corresponding for the last several weeks, arranging suitable accommodations at Malfoy Manor for you."

            "I'm afraid I don't understand. 'Accommodations'?"

            "Yes," Isolde's mother said rationally. "You won't be staying overnight, of course – that would be scandalous and unseemly – but you will be visiting for at least three full days a week until the wedding."

            Isolde's lips bleached white at the corners, and her entire face tightened. "I work at the Ministry. I cannot possibly miss a full day every week."

            Her mother tilted her head in curiosity. "… a full day? Oh – you were assuming that the weekends would constitute the other two? Oh, no dear. I was referring to three full weekdays. Your father and I will be accompanying you on weekend afternoons, so that we may grow better acquainted with Narcissa and Draco ourselves. As for your work, well – you hardly need it to survive. It's a mindless hobby which I'm sure you'll be willing to sacrifice for such an important aspect of your life."

            "Draco Malfoy works as well," Isolde said flatly, her last attempt at reason. "There would be no point for my presence during work hours."

            "You should be acquainted with the Malfoy household and staff. Besides, I believe that Draco supports that writer, Blaise Zabini – that he lives and works in the manor. You enjoy his work, don't you? I'm sure the two of you can have long, intellectual discussions until Draco returns."

            Isolde's eyes were as flat and dead as granite. "Of course," she said.

.           .           .

            Isolde stood alone at the door of the Malfoy Manor. Her family's coach had taken her to the gates, but her mother had insisted that she proceed unaccompanied. "You are not a sully-blooded weakling seeking to impress her betters with what feeble might she may possess," she had said. "You are a lady, and you shall show both your strength and reason in that you approach alone and without fear."

            Malfoy Manor had been built with the sole purpose of preventing unwanted intruders from escaping – and hopefully even entering – alive. Although she had been granted access by the lord of the manor himself and was therefore protected, she could still hear the soft, unnerving rustles and growls of hidden creatures in the distance. Out of the corners of her eyes she caught the muted flashes of spells firing as the unseen beasts crashed into an invisible barrier.

            She made her way to the centre of the estate at last, and took in the awesome sight of the Manor. It was a massive monstrosity of sprawling hallways and spiralling towers like slender daggers reaching to slice the bellies of the clouds. Great shining windows sparkled and gleamed in the sun, utterly opaque to the outside eye. Most impressive, though, was the knowledge that this was, quite literally, only the tip of the iceberg.

The catacombs beneath the Manor had once linked half a dozen or more Dark families (in the sixteenth or seventeenth century, she thought), but the other houses and their subsequent entrances had been demolished over the years. It was a testament to the reputed Malfoy slyness that they alone had withstood the years. There were other ancient Dark families, of course, but none of them had been so firmly entrenched in the Dark Arts for so long.

            Putting such thoughts aside, Isolde calmed herself and raised one hand to the dangling silk rope of the large bell above. She pulled it hard, and it tolled out three mournful peals before falling into silence. She stood, arms slack at her sides, and waited.

            A flash of black above her, and she stepped backward, craning her neck up. The muted shrill of stone sliding across stone pulsed at the back of her head, and she took in a ragged breath. There was something on the roof – something very large. She had never heard of a roof-dwelling golem before, but that had certainly been what it sounded like.

            The Something swept down from the roof on twenty-foot wings that sparkled black in the daylight. It landed with almost uncanny grace for a beast of its size, the claws shrieking against the paving stones with a sound like wands-on-a-blackboard.

            It was a statue. A moving, breathing, living statue of an enormous Gryphon. It tossed its head regally and the lion's tale whipped excitedly behind it. It was carved of onyx, and the talons and beak ended in wickedly sharp obsidian. The blank eyes seemed to contain some sort of sly intelligence, like a wicked spirit caught in a crystal ball. It opened its beak and Isolde stepped back, ready for it to either attack or scream, and was completely unprepared when it spoke.

            "Girl," it said, it's voice clearly and deeply male, smooth and insidious and menacing, "what business have you here?"

            She stood with all the pride of one whose pedigree is as long as they are tall and said: "I am Isolde Greengrass, daughter of Ladon and Calypso Macnair Greengrass, and I am betrothed to the Master of the Manor, Draco Malfoy."

            It fluttered its wings and pawed at the ground. "The future Mistress? Indeed." It paused for a moment, seeming to absorb the truth of this, and then danced backwards. "You may enter, Isolde Greengrass. You are, indeed, worthy of the Malfoy name." It took off then, with an apparent ease that belied its size and weight, and left her to contemplate its cryptic comment as the great doors swung open.

            Isolde stepped inside.

.           .           .

            Isolde had seen photographs of Lucius – may his soul find peace – and Narcissa Malfoy in the _Prophet_ and  the man standing in the door clearly bore no resemblance to a Malfoy

            He was of an average height, neither particularly tall nor short, and his skin was a rich, nutty brown that reminded her of the sugared almonds she had loved as a child. His hair was curly and sable, his eyes the colour of firewhisky. He was very thin, and could have easily slipped into the role of the Tortured Artist if he hadn't possessed such deeply-engraved laugh lines.

            At the moment, though, he wasn't smiling in the least.

            "Hello," he said. "Please allow me to introduce myself: Blaise Zabini, author in residence, at your service. And, if I am correct, you are Isolde Greengrass?"

            "Yes," she said. "I've read your work. It's very good."

            He nodded in acknowledgement. "Thank you. I knew your sister, Daphne. She was in my year at Hogwarts. I can't say we were close, but she seemed to be a decent person – which leads me to wonder how she managed to find herself in Slytherin."

            "Yes," she said.

            "Well," he said, and his voice was cold. "I suppose I should escort you to Draco's study. He doesn't usually like to be disturbed while he's working on the Accounts, but it isn't everyday one meets one's… fiancé."

            "No," Isolde agreed, equally coolly, "it isn't."

            Blaise led her out of the parlour and up through a maze of twisting staircases and winding, circuitous hallways. He attempted conversation several times, although his tone had the faintly antagonistic flavour of one who is only talking because he ought.

            "I don't remember you from Hogwarts," he said somewhat accusingly. "You were a Slytherin?"

            "Yes," she said, "but you wouldn't, if you were in Draco Malfoy's year. I entered the year following his graduation."

            He calculated her age very quickly and almost missed a step. "You're nineteen-" he broke off shrilly.

            "Yes," she said, utterly blank. He fell to silence and didn't speak again until they had reached a towering door of solid oak.

            Zabini raised his hand to knock, but the door swung open before his knuckles touched the wood. Isolde's breath caught as she saw Draco Malfoy for the first time.

            He was tall, broad-shouldered, and terribly pale. His hair – the fairest blonde she'd ever seen – fell nearly to his shoulders, and his eyes were a very solemn grey. He wore an expertly cut robe (black, of course, with pale blue lining that showed in the cuffs of his sleeves) and was so neatly groomed and collected that Isolde was, for a brief moment, intimidated.

            He bowed over her hand. Although the manner was flattering and courtly, his face was completely impassive. "Miss Greengrass. I apologize for not meeting you at the door. I had not expected you so early. I am, of course, Draco Malfoy."

            "Hello," she said, and her voice was altogether much too breathy for her liking.

            He nodded. "Well," he continued, "we have much to discuss. May I suggest adjourning to the drawing room?"

            "Of course," she complied, and he swept off without another word, leaving her to travel in his wake. Zabini, oddly enough, followed. She concluded that wherever he was bound lay in the same direction as the drawing room.

            After another confusing journey through the halls of Malfoy Manor, the three  arrived at the drawing room. It was, surprisingly, a cosy and completely un-intimidating nook, with deep, plush chairs. Most extraordinary, _all_ of the richly embroidered rugs and tapestries managed to abstain from portraying gruesome deaths and battle scenes.

            Draco escorted her to a regal, throne-like armchair and then sunk into the couch directly opposite her. Zabini slid in next to him, and Isolde found herself increasingly curious about his role in the affair.

            "We are bound to marriage by a magical contract," Draco began slowly, each word carefully measured and considered, as if he were loathe to say them. "I have spent the last two months researching such things extensively. Short of dying, which I don't intend to do within the next hundred years, they are impossible to break without incurring terrible penalties. Do you understand?"

            She nodded, incapable of saying anything. He leaned forward, and she noticed for the first time the faint lines around his mouth that seemed to suggest cruelty. She met his eyes.

            "I will be frank, Miss Greengrass," he said solemnly. "I do not wish to marry you. And, based on the fact that you seem to be a reasonably rational person, I would guess that you don't particularly want to marry me either."

            "No," she agreed, "not particularly." She glanced at his hand, which was resting very casually on Zabini's thigh. One eyebrow quirked briefly before she could stop it.

            Draco followed her gaze but did not remove his hand. He looked up, meeting her eyes squarely. She inhaled as deeply and subtly as she could manage.

            "I will give you children, as that is expected," he said. "Other than that, I trust you to be discreet in pursuing any… hobbies." He rose from his chair. "I'm afraid that I really must get back to the paperwork, dreadful as it is, but I'm sure I will see you over dinner. In the mean time, feel free to look about the Manor. I'm sure you can find a House Elf to give a tour, or talk with Blaise if he isn't otherwise occupied." He turned to the man in question. "Are you?"

            "No, not really," Zabini said unenthusiastically, and sighed. He stood up and motioned for Isolde to follow. "Come on," he said. "If we want to cover a tenth of the Manor before nightfall, I suggest we start immediately. Would you rather see the Aviary or the Mostly Non-Fatal Garden? Or perhaps you prefer the Library – though I have to warn you of it being extremely dangerous."

            "The Aviary, please," she said, and the three of them left, Draco taking a sharp left shortly afterwards.

            "This must be very hard for you," Zabini said, after a pause.

            "Yes," she said, surprisingly honest.

            "Draco and I – well. We didn't know until Narcissa owled us a couple of months ago." He sounded faintly apologetic. "I'm sorry if I was cool with you earlier. I thought you would… I don't know. Try to seduce him or something ridiculous like that. It was incredibly juvenile of me, I know. I'm really very sorry we've put you in this position."

            "It's quite all right," she said, rather surprised that he sounded as if he actually cared. "I'm sure that I'll manage."

            He looked back on her as they stopped in front of a set of impressive stone doors with altogether too much gilt around the edges, and the corners of his mouth twitched into a kind of half-smile. "Of course you will." He turned back to the doors. "Now," he said, "This is the Aviary. I'll have my wand out, and I recommend that you do also. There's _nothing_ in the Manor that qualifies as harmless, although most of it is either very beautiful, very deadly, or – most often – both." And with that, he flung the door open.

.           .           .

            Isolde arrived home just before full dark. Her cheeks were glowing pink from the cold autumn air, her short hair was ruffled and tangled with twigs and feathers, and her fingers were still sore from being bitten by books. She was happier than she had ever been in her entire life.

            Her mother was waiting at the door when Isolde got out of the Greengrass family carriage, and she looked highly disapproving.

            Calypso Greengrass, despite receiving the last name from her husband, was intrinsically a Macnair. She was a small, slim woman with a heart-shaped face and wide grey eyes and shouldn't have been able to intimidate anyone. But the eyes had narrowed and hardened over the years, and the face had acquired deep lines and prominent cheekbones. She hadn't grown, of course, but… when a woman has a wand to your throat; when a woman knows and has used all of the Unforgivables; when a woman is half-mad from rage and grief after the Aurors have carted a good three-fourths of her family to Azkaban and she can still speak with all the deadly smoothness of a viper… then height doesn't really matter any more.

            "You look as if you've enjoyed yourself," she said. "You have, of course, retained your modesty?"

            The question seemed so absurd after the day's events that Isolde was nearly floored. She realised, then, that the twigs caught in her hair and her stained skirt could be taken for something other than products of a voyage through the odder side of Malfoy Manor. "Of course," she said.

            Her mother nodded. "Good. Wedding magic is much more powerful with a virgin bride. Now, come to bed. It's very late, and you'll be returning tomorrow morning."

            "Yes," said Isolde, and followed her mother into the house. She caught a glimpse of her father, sitting in the great armchair in front of the fire in his study, the light catching on his red hair. He was a great bear of a man, the sort you might expect to find several centuries ago, crashing about in furs with a wild beard while trailing slobbering mastiffs. He had been tamed by his wife and spent most of his days doing bookwork or entertaining guests, escaping only rarely to hunt wild beasts. He had nodded off in the chair now, a thick book resting on his lap. She wondered briefly and somewhat wistfully what life would have been like if he had taken charge of raising her, as he had Daphne. But she was her mother's child, and there was no use lingering on it.

            "Well," said her mother, ushering Isolde into her bedchamber. "Sleep well. Sweet dreams." The door closed.

.           .           .

            Isolde stood with her back to her husband, arms crossed protectively over her chest. The robe – an elegantly cut, costly thing designed by a Frenchwoman of high repute – hugged her shoulders and dropped into a deep V to just past her waist, leaving her back open and vulnerable.

            She took a deep, rattling breath and brushed her wand over the seams. They loosened, then parted beneath it, and the entire dress slid down, the shoulders coming to rest at her elbows. She wanted nothing more than to wrap it around herself and seal it up until her skin disappeared beneath its rich red-and-white brocade, but… that would dishonour her family. She relaxed her arms and let the robe slip off them and pool at the ground.

            She was naked beneath it, and the flickering orange firelight played shadow-games across her skin, brushing against her thighs and stomach and breasts fleetingly, before reaching to caress her dry cheeks. She tilted her head back, her eyes rolling to the ceiling in an effort to retain tears, and her teeth crushed her lower lip.

            Strong, heavy arms settled around her waist. She leaned into them, feeling his nakedness against her own. His hands slid down to her hips and the fingers tightened enough to bruise. The moan rose in her throat, irrepressible. It burst harshly from her mouth, and she pressed against him, her fingers finding the flesh of his wrists and squeezing.

            "Please…" she said, so slowly and softly that it might have been a rush of breeze.

            "I'm sorry," he said simply, remarkably honest. She thought she might have imagined the hitch in his voice.

            It lasted for hours, or seemed to. Likely, it was over in a matter of minutes, given his rush and her pain, but the horror and relentless pounding beat an endless, jarring tattoo into her skull until all she could hear was his laboured breathing and all she could see was his long, pale, sweat-slicked hair glowing orange by firelight.

            He collapsed against her, his weight pressing on her chest until each breath was an effort. The room was stiflingly hot, and the added warmth of his body on hers made her skin burn and sweat. The fire was blazing in its hearth; a traditional symbol of the wedding-night.

            His palm brushed against her cheek and her eyes snapped open. She hadn't realized she'd shut them until just now. He moved against her, drawing himself up until she could look into his eyes. They were as placid a grey as her own.

            She suddenly wished that she could run her hand down the smooth ridges of his back; to soothe the hot scratches she had gorged with her nails; to weave her fingers through the thick blond hair; to show some small sign of affection that might signify that this had some meaning – that it had not been a mechanical, loveless act of necessity.

            And then, like an omen or an act of divine purpose, he touched her cheek with the fingertips of one hand. Her breath caught, then freed itself again as he stroked the length of her face.

            "Isolde," he whispered, and she shivered convulsively, at once despising herself for it. She had never before had as little control over her body as she did now. "Isolde," he said again, the name rolling off his tongue like fine, rich chocolate.

            "You are –" he paused, caressing the smooth plane of her cheek again with one hand. "You are the most fascinating, beautiful woman I have ever met." Another pause, and this time it was little more than a brush of the side of his hand. "If circumstances had been different –" he said, "if I had never met Blaise – I might well have fallen in love with you." And, having said this, he slipped off the bed and left the room without another word.

            Isolde lay still for perhaps two or three minutes, completely motionless, before the first sob came, wretched and painful, ripping at the back of her throat.

.           .           .

Isolde gave the mirror an experimental twirl, watching as the yards of fine blue-grey fabric rippled around her ankles like woven water. Twin pearl drops gleamed on each ear – the only ornament the richest woman in the wizarding world ever wore. (A gift from her father on her wedding day, of course. Draco never gave her jewellery.) She stopped, the skirt moving still, and ran her hands down the front of her dress to smooth it.

            She stared into her reflection's eyes. It gazed impassively back at her. She thought of what she was about to do and laid her hand flat against the cold glass.

            "Mistress Malfoy?"

            Isolde turned. Draco had hired a governess last week – a large, horse-faced forty-something by the name of Xenarthra Largo who spoke and moved at such a frustratingly narcoleptic rate that Isolde had the constant urge to feed her a large quantity of Fizzing Whizbees. "Yes?" she said.

            "I… have put… Young Master Phaeton to… bed. Is there… anything else you… require of me… this evening?"

            Isolde waved a hand dismissively. "No, Xenarthra, you may have the rest of the night off, but do keep quiet. We're entertaining a great many people tonight, and most of them have much higher expectations of servants than I. Neither heard nor seen."

            "Of course, Mistress Malfoy," the woman said with a respectful nod, and left. Isolde checked the mirror one last time before sweeping from the room.

            She descended the staircase with all the majestic grace of five hundred years' aristocratic breeding. The music – quite opportunely – died down, and conversation hushed. Heads turned, eyes focused. The admiration and jealousy was nearly tangible, and Isolde bathed in its warmth.

            She swept her eyes across the room with practiced leisure until they alighted on her husband, who was smiling in pride. She returned it, just letting her mouth pull up at the corners enough to show warmth. She made her way to him, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease.

            "Happy Birthday," she said, and gave him an affectionate kiss on the cheek. He laughed, pulling her in by the waist for a brief hug before releasing her.

            "How sweet," Pansy Baddock commented, and sounded as if she might actually mean it.

            "Of course it's sweet," her husband, an unpleasantly red-faced man who drank too much, returned. "They've only been married for – what is it now, a year?"

            "Yes, and a half," Isolde affirmed.

            Malcolm Baddock nodded and sipped his wine. "You're always sweet then. Give it another five and, on my word, you'll be running off at every opportunity just to escape each other."

            "Such optomism!" Pansy laughed, somewhat shrilly. Her knuckles were white around the stem of her wine glass.

            "Malcolm's always been one to see the brighter side of things," Draco remarked, and turned to the tall blonde man beside him. "Smith, I don't think I've introduced you to my lovely wife?"

            Smith bowed over her hand with an exaggerated flourish. "Madam Malfoy, the honour is mine."

            She laughed delightedly, her eyes dancing over the tailored blue robes that fell across broad shoulders and flared in at a surprisingly narrow waist. "Call me Isolde, please," she murmurred.

            "Zacharias," he returned, blue eyes as bright as the sea on a cloudless day.

            Malcolm Baddock barked out a harsh laugh. His wife leaned away from him, albeit almost imperceptibly. "Watch her, Draco, or Smith here will be stealing her away." Everyone smiled forcibly.

            That night, Isolde stood outside in her slippers and thin silk nightgown, waiting. No more than ten minutes had passed before she made out the sheen of corn-blond hair under the light of the full moon.

            "He doesn't know?" Zacharias' breath ghosted against her ear.

            "He doesn't care," she said, and drew him inside.

            The Gryphon above the gate ruffled its wings discontentedly and settled its head against its talons, the long leopard tail lashing against the wind. Yes, it thought. Worthy of the Malfoy name indeed.

.           .           .

            Isolde shrugged on a pale blue robe (made, of course, from only the finest magic-spun silk) over her thin, half-translucent chemise. There was a rustle of egyptian cotton in the bed behind her. She tilted her head back in the memory of recent pleasure and fairly purred, running her fingers through her hair.

            She left the room without further acknowledging him. It had been their mutual prerequisite to the affair, last night; there would be no long goodbyes – no regrets. She knew that he could navigate his way out of the Manor easily enough (after all, he had gotten in, and that was the real challenge), and she doubted that anyone else would care that he was here, as long as he wasn't causing trouble.

            She descended the stairs to the Breakfast Room. It was her one of her favorite places on the grounds, next to the Aviary and Labyrinth, and this was simply because it did not _fit in_ with the rest of the Manor.

            The Breakfast Room was quite small, compared to the rest of the house, and was dominated by the wall behind the table, which was painted a brilliant bumblebee-yellow. Everything else was cheerily white with merry little blue-and-pink-and-yellow accents in the form of flowers and birds. It would have been disgustingly cute, if the birds in question were not being eaten by the carnivorous flowers – each of which had sharp, menacing teeth protruding out of its delicate petals. Most of the pink in the room was painted blood.

            Blaise had decorated it.

            Speaking of the man, he was already sitting at the breakfast table, eating a scone, and drinking an enormous mug of black coffee while perusing _The Daily Prophet_. He glanced up as she came in and his mouth quirked into a smirk.

            "Good morning," she said amiably.

            "Good morning," he returned, sounding altogether too superior.

 "Is that scone fresh?"

            "Yesterday's," he returned, "but the House Elves are just now taking them out of the oven. I couldn't wait." He shrugged. She smiled, nodded, and had just turned to enter the kitchen and request something to eat when his voice froze her. "I saw you with Zacharias Smith at the party – how you were looking at him. And this morning I checked the wards and couldn't help but notice that someone re-entered just an hour after the party closed."

            Her knuckles went white as she clenched her hands within the pockets of her robe.

            "In this situation, which you –" she broke off, then continued, determined to be practical. "I apologize; I should place the blame where it truly lies. In this situation, in which our families – that is, Draco's and mine – have placed us, you and Draco… have an advantage over me. I think –"

            Her back faced him, but she could very nearly feel him smiling behind her. "I don't care what you do in your free time, as I trust you to be discreet. You certainly deserve a man who will… provide for you in the areas Draco and I do not. No, I only contest your choice."

            Her eyes widened and she turned to face him. "Zacharias? What's wrong with him? I've checked – he's never had any negative business with the Malfoy family, and as far as I can tell he's never had an affair with either of you –" she broke off, her hand flying elegantly to her mouth. "Not Narcissa!" she whispered, horrified.

            Blaise nearly choked on his scone as he bent over the table, spraying crumbs indecoreously as he laughed. When he'd regained the use of his throat and somewhat subdued his laughter, he said, "Of course not Narcissa, you silly girl." She was used to the condescending endearment and only smiled. "You've really checked a one-night stand out that thoroughly?" he continued, sounding vaguely impressed now. "Honestly, you're far too political for your own good."

            "Thank you," she said genuinely. "But if he hasn't killed anyone or slept with anyone, what on earth is the matter with him?"

            Blaise looked bereaved. "He's a _Hufflepuff_," he moaned. "You just _can't_ with Hufflepuffs."

            Her hand flew to her mouth again, this time to hide tiny giggles that threatened to escape from her lips.

            Blaise smiled in return and reached over the table to pat her hand in mock-patronisation. "Well, then," he said, "you'd better go back to your _Hufflepuffian Lover_ and escort him out of the Manor before Draco comes back from his morning stroll." His lips twitched. "Mr Smith does, after all, have quite pretty hair. I'd hate to see him lose it." She stood and he snapped his napkin at her, now grinning. "Get on with you!"

            She took off, trailing girlish laughter as she flew back to the bedroom.

            Mr Zacharias Smith, luckiest man in the world, did not leave the Manor for another three hours.

.           .           .

_Dear Mother,_

_Things here are fantastic. Well sort of. _

_            The other boys in my dorm say professors can't be prejudiced but I'm not so sure. Prof. Granger seems like she's always glaring at me and she asks me the hardest questions. Did you or Father ever do anything nasty to her?_

_            On the Bright Side Prof. Snape is completely spiff. We've double potions with Hufflepuffs and they are so scared of him its not even funny. They make the stupidest mistakes and he doesn't let them get away with it either. I know its kind of weird to enjoy watching other kids squirm, but Theo (friend I made) says with Hufflepuffs or Gryffindors, its perfectly natural._

_            This Ravenclaw seventh year came up to me the other day and asked if I knew Blaise Zabini and I said, yes he's my uncle. Well she wants to know if I can get a signature for her? Normally I'd say no but she seemed to be cooler than most of the non-Slytherins so I thought I'd help her._

_            Oh, and Theo and Alex (another friend from the dorm) both want to know if you can send those cookies in again because everyone loved them._

_Your Dutiful Son (hah),_

_Phaet_

_PS. Why did you have to name me Phaeton? Why? Absolutely everyone spells it wrong._

_-P._

.           .           .

_Dear Mother,_

_Quidditch! Is! Wonderful!_

_            I know Father's a bit dissapointed that I didn't get Seeker, but I didn't really want it anyway. (Don't tell him this, but Seeker is just a lot of hovering about until one crucial moment of nerve-wracking terror. Chaser is so much better, moving around at a **decent** pace all the time.)_

_            I suppose I should tell you that I met a girl, too. She's in Fourth, like me, and in Gryffindor. (Please don't tell Father.) Her name is Serendipity Hopkins and she's smart and pretty and not really very Gryffindor-like at all. It's kind of annoying, though that the others in her house just glare at me all the time. Especially the Weasleys. Eight Weasleys this year would you believe it? They're going to take over the school if they aren't exterminated directly._

_            I know I've mentioned Alex's problems with his parents before… It's getting kind of bad for him, and he really doesn't want to come home for Christmas, but practically no-one is staying in Slytherin House this time… The Manor's big enough, right? (I know you'll say yes, you love Alex.)_

_Your Dutiful Son,_

_Phaet_

.           .           .

_Dear Mother,_

_N.E.W.T.s are just about over with and I'm fairly confident about my scores. I've been studying from dawn to dusk, of course, and Madeline is getting rather cross with me. (I think the relationship may be just about over, honestly… Serves me right for courting fifth years, I know.)_

_            Is Uncle Blaise doing well? You said he was 'sneezing up a storm' last time you wrote and that Father was 'out of his mind with worry'. I am, of course, not as obsessive as Father tends to be about such things, but I do worry. _

_            Oh, speaking of Uncle Blaise… Theo **finally** picked up one of his books – took me seven years to make him do it, imagine – and fell completely in love with it. He's bought out every single one of Uncle Blaise's books and he's only got three to go so far. And you know how prolific Uncle is. Truly amazing._

_            Sera and I have to give our Head Boy/Girl speeches together, which is guaranteed to be awkward, considering our Romantic History. Damn Gryffindors. I have a suspicion that she'll step on my foot or something mid-way through my speech just to make me stumble. Vindictive little thing, she is._

_            You'll be at the Leaving Ceremony, of course? Father's been terribly busy lately from his letters… do you suppose he'll be able to come? It's quite all right if he doesn't, I understand, but I want to know beforehand. _

_Your dutiful son,_

_Phaeton Malfoy_

_P.S. Hello, Mrs. Malfoy. Alex here. Just stealing your son's letter so I can congratulate you on your divine culinary skills and compliment whatever changes you've made to the Snow Cookie recipe. I hadn't thought perfection could be improved, but evidentally I was wrong._

_A.C._

_And this is from Theo, who wishes to pass on his deep, heartfelt love of Mr. Zabini's delightful novels and to inform Mr. Zabini that, if he were a woman, Mr Theodore J. Nott III would propose marriage._

_T.N._

_Don't listen to them, they're both great idiots._

_P.M._

.           .           .

            "Isolde! Good morning." Blaise said cheerily, turning a page in the _Daily Prophet_.

            "Good morning, Blaise," she returned, seating herself beside him, her hands cupped around a steaming mug of coffee. She took a tenative sip from it, letting the warmth race down her throat and through her veins, and regarded him over its brim.

            He was getting older. They were all getting older. Deep lines traced his mouth, forehead, eyes. His skin, once so shining and firm, was starting to show the effects of constant sun. Thin jets of grey were creeping up at the roots of his hair, and somehow this was the saddest; she had always admired his hair, curly and shiningly black as it was.

            He crooked an eyebrow at her and she realised she had been staring. She averted her eyes quickly.

            "I wasn't aware I was so interesting," he said, his voice so gentle that she half-wondered if he had read her thoughts.

            She smiled and elected to change the subject. "Of course you are," she said, "especially in the opinion of a certain seventeen-year-old boy who, and I quote, wishes to 'propose marriage' to you." At his baffled look, she drew Phaeton's letter out of her pocket and flapped it temptingly in front of his nose. "Phaeton's friend, apparently. It came in early this morning."

            He snatched it from her fingers and shook it open, reading it over quickly. His lips quirked at this passage or that, but he burst into full, belly-shaking laughter when his eyes fell on Theo Nott's little comment. It took him some time to regain his self-control, during which Isolde finished her coffee at leisure.

            "Draco would be in his office again?" she said when he was quite finished.

            Blaise shrugged. "Not today. He's gone to the East Wing to look for some priceless document hidden behind a portrait or some such." His brow creased. "Actually, I'd better go up there. The East Wing… depresses him." He started to stand.

            Isolde stopped him. "No. I'll go. I want to talk to him."

            Blaise gave her a curious look. "Really? I mean, you're not one for talking – obviously – and particularly not with Draco."

            "I would like to talk to him today," she said.

            Blaise blinked and shrugged. "All right, then. Go ahead." He waved her off.

            Isolde left the Breakfast Room and made her way to the East Wing cautiously, carefully deactivating the hexes as she walked. The East Wing was the most warded section of the house, next to the old dungeon underneath the Drawing Room.

            It was dark in the East Wing. No-one had ever bothered installing lighting charms; instead, a collection of fairylight latterns hung from a hat stand just inside the entrance. She brained the hat stand with an antique silver dagger as it leapt for her throat and retrieved one of the lanterns before it could collect itself. She lit it with the briefest touch of her wand, watching amusedly as the tiny sprites jumped to life and cavorted in miniature pools of brightness.

            The East Wing was also where the Malfoys housed their family portraits. It would not do for casual visitors to see them as they strolled through the Manor – to see all the shame and glory and secrets of the Malfoy line laid bare along its walls. No, with a few exceptions (mostly wise old men who knew better than to speak and children who'd died before they learned the secrets), the Ancestors were housed here, some grumbling quietly, others raging or moaning or screaming mad curses.

            Isolde paused to consider each one, listening to each casual insult and grudged compliment stoicly. One old woman with shock-white hair and green eyes that glinted cruely (the sort that hung on long after her due just to spite her grandchildren) spat that she had known Isolde's many-times-great-grandfather, the filthy blood-traitor, the Greengrasses were all muggle-loving scum with rags on their backs, little better than Weasleys and what sacrilige to the Malfoy name that this dirty little chit of a girl was a Malfoy. Isolde listened to her until she had quite finished, nodded, and moved on.

            An hour passed before she came to Draco, standing before the last portrait in the hall. She had known that he would be here, of course. Whatever errand he had originally set out to accomplish, it would always bring him back to this place.

            Lucius Malfoy was the only non-moving portrait in the hall. This wasn't to say that he had been painted by a muggle – no, Lucius would never have consented to such a thing – but simply that he did not choose to move. He would blink, of course, and occasionally you could catch the slightest turn of his head, but he did not speak. It was most likely because the real Lucius still lacked a soul and there was nothing from which the portrait could draw.

            Draco turned toward her. The blue glow of her lantern illuminated his face and made it glow harshly against the backdrop of the portrait. She was struck by the similarity between father and son… She had always recognized them to have an above-average likeness, but never had they seemed so close.

            Age had done it, of course. The years had carved their marks around Draco's mouth and along his forehead, between his brows… Lines that matched Lucius'.

            "I look like my father," Draco said flatly. He did not appear surprised to see her there.

            She inclined her head. "Yes," she said. "You do."

            Draco spared one last glance at the unmoving portrait. Lucius' gaze was blank and unresponsive.

            She did not say: _But you are not him._

            And he did not reply: _Thank you._

            Instead, he looked at her for a moment, then offered her his arm. She took it, and he lead her silently out of the East Wing.

.           .           .

**A/N** This was a monster to write, but I'm really quite proud of it… I've never done anything quite like this before, I don't think.

Mucho Kudos to the ever-lovely **Cardigan Pantalones**, and also to **ClosetGeek**, who jumped in like the wonderful friend and critic that she is and did an excellent job at pointing out flaws, typos, and general Bad Stuff.


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